


The Hollow Men

by inanhourofdreaming



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Grim Reapers, Lydia Martin & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, M/M, Romance, Stiles-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 12:07:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4606176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inanhourofdreaming/pseuds/inanhourofdreaming
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Stiles becomes the Grim Reaper, Lydia is a good friend, Peter finds his purpose, and Parrish joins the party.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hollow Men

**Author's Note:**

> Stiles’ Jeep is ok, here, because there’s only so much stress one person can be asked to withstand. This story happens after Donovan dies, but before any of the other characters knows about it (and before we find out that Theo knows – here, he doesn’t). Liam and Hayden have been kidnapped, and Theo saved them, same as on the show. Theo and Stiles never have that roof moment. 
> 
> This is predominantly a Stiles/Peter story, with a healthy heaping of the lovely Lydia. The title, and inspiration for the story, is the poem The Hollow Men, by T.S. Eliot.
> 
> This story is un-betaed. All mistakes, plot holes, and cheesy moments are my fault.

_Those who have crossed_

_With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom_

_Remember us – if at all – not as lost_

_Violent souls, but only_

_As the hollow men_

 

T.S. Elliot, _The Hollow Men_    

 

Stiles hasn’t said anything to the pack. He wakes, terrified, reaching for anything that might give him back the grasp on reality that he has been so desperately, desperately seeking, but he tells no one. Malia is gone, maybe home, maybe out in the woods. She hasn’t stayed in his bed in weeks. Gone to Theo’s, maybe. There’s no warmth to ground himself with, no life at all around him.

He takes in a deep breath, pulls his sweat-soaked shirt away from his chest before giving it up for a lost cause. He strips it off to throw into the corner with the rest of his dirty laundry. He lets his head drop into his hands. Reminds himself to breath. Just breath. It isn’t real. The Nogitsune is gone, it’s _been_ gone for months.

He’d thought he had this under control. The nightmares had finally started tapering off. But then Donovan happened. He can’t stop hearing Donovan’s voice, can’t stop picturing the metal bar jutting out of his chest or the look in his eyes. Stiles did that. Stiles killed him. There’s no Nogitsune to blame this time, but Stiles hasn’t been able to tell anyone that it doesn’t make a difference. It’s just another death on his hands, another person’s last moments to be played out behind his eyelids.

The part that gets him the worst is that he doesn’t regret it. Death is supposed to scar you. It’s supposed to take a piece of your soul with it. Like a horcrux, he thinks. He laughs but it comes out like a sputter.  He doesn’t regret killing Donovan. Everyone says what he did when the Nogitsune walked in his skin wasn’t him, either. That he was possessed and it wasn’t his fault.

But the truth is, it _felt_ like it was. It wasn’t as clear-cut as it seemed to Scott and Lydia when they’d walked his mind. The mind, he is discovering, creates its own ways of perceiving what goes on inside it. To Stiles, the Nogitsune was not a separate being. He _was_ the Nogitsune, and its wants were his wants, its desires his desires. It had molded him in its image and when Scott bit it, separate though he was, he felt it die. He died with it.

Only now he is not dead. He is not dead, but he is still dealing death. Donovan, stupid Donovan with his futile desire for revenge, is just the latest in the line of deaths suffered at Stiles’ hands. He cannot regret it, this slow descent into something like madness. Or maybe something like peace. He needs to accept it. Death is simple. The world they live in now, it’s kill or be killed. It’s sharp teeth to his neck or a bar through someone else’s chest. He isn’t Scott and he isn’t the Nogitsune anymore, either. He can’t heal. But maybe he can become something else.

She’s calling him. He can feel it, in the space where the Nogitsune used to be. She calls with fire and with sacrifice. The Nemeton. She feels like power. She promises him knowledge. She offers mastery over death.

She calls. She calls. She calls.

 

_Between the essence_

_And the descent_

_Falls the Shadow_

 

The Shadow. He has faced death, and overcome death, and now, he knows, he will become Death. The Nemeton seeks the one who will walk in death’s footsteps. Scott is a True Alpha. He is the light and the vigor of life. But Stiles knows, the Nemeton knows, that there cannot be balance where there is no ending. He knows that Lydia is the harbinger of death, someone else its scavenger, but only he will be its executioner.

He climbs down the steps, barefoot and shirtless. He doesn’t feel the chill. It’s only a few minutes drive to the preserve. None of the rest of the pack comes here, not with Derek gone. He walks, and walks, eyes closed. The Nemeton can sense him coming. She is not alone. She holds to her the ashes of the lost. He can feel them. She is surrounded by ghosts.

He steps onto her rough surface and feels the power of the earth under his feet. She will tell him what to do. He crouches, hands to the ground as she pulses through him, and as he rises again he pulls with him the scythe of those who came before him. With hands gripped tight, he turns to view the souls of those who walk here still, stuck between the worlds.

He will grant them freedom.

He swings the scythe.

There is darkness. There is silence. There is peace.

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles wakes slowly. His back is stiff and he can tell by the way his neck doesn’t want to rotate that he slept on hard ground. He moves to sit up and rub his eyes but he’s stopped by the stick in his hand.

Wait, no, not stick. Jesus, is that a _scythe_? He’d thought he must’ve dreamed it but he’s here, laid out on the Nemeton like a sacrifice, surrounded by trees. What the hell is _happening_ to him. He remembers vague notions from last night. Something about death…and souls? Shit. Shit shit shit.

He groans. He tries to put the scythe down but the minute he lets go he feels a terrible wrongness. He snatches it up again. _Ok, Stiles, breath. We’re ok, we’re good_ , he mumbles. _We just…apparently became the grim reaper last night_? He groans again and lets his head fall to his knees.

There’s no way he’s going to be explaining this. Scott doesn’t even know about the Donovan thing. Scott will think he’s been possessed by evil again, or he’ll make those disappointed puppy dog eyes and insist it isn’t Stiles fault, and Stiles just cannot deal with either reaction. So he just won’t tell him. Easy solution. It’s ok, it’s just one more secret. Stiles is great at secrets. Maybe not at lying, sure, but secrets? Stiles can do that. His dad…well, he’s going to have to tell his dad. Eventually. His dad, who has seen the cost of his sacrifices, who came when he woke screaming for weeks and weeks on end, will not judge him for this.

The bigger question at the moment is what to do with the scythe. He can’t exactly expect that no one will notice him toting around a blade that’s taller than he is, assuming it’s visible to anyone else. He scrunches his face and then raises one eyebrow, looking down in question at the Nemeton.

“Uh, Nemeton?” he says. There’s no answer, obviously. Ok, what did he do last night? How did he communicate with her? He huffs out a breath, frustrated. Taps his fingers on his the bark of the stump. Concentrate. She’s in there, in his mind already, right? So if he just shuts his eyes and concentrates he should be able to….yes!

It’s not words exactly, more an understanding of what he needs to do next. He holds the scythe and imagines it somewhere else. His mind fills with a valley full of shadow. This place is real, he somehow knows. Just as he knows it is his now. He can draw from it and – the scythe poofs away as if it never was – put things back. That’s one problem solved, at least. Only a thousand more to deal with.

Now he just has to get back to his car with no shoes and no shirt and hope there’s no patrol out. The last thing his dad needs to worry about is his son sleepwalking or – he reaches into his pocket and feels the cut of his keys warmed by his body heat – sleep driving. At least he won’t have to walk home. He glances at his watch. 6:15. Still plenty of time to get back. Dad took the late shift last night, which means he won’t be up until at least 9. He steps off the giant gnarled stump of the Nemeton and makes his way to his jeep.

He’s back by quarter til, which gives him about an hour to shower and get ready for class. His phone is still sitting where he left it last night, plugged in on his nightstand. He checks for missed messages, but no one seems to have noticed him missing. There obviously weren’t any other emergencies last night. He’d say that was lucky, but he knows exactly what happened instead and he’s not quite willing to bring luck into it yet.

The shower is hot and perfect as it beats down on his back and he feels almost human when he gets out. Almost human. God, is he still human? He feels the panic rising in his chest, ready to take over, before he remembers that literally everyone he knows right now aside from his dad is something other than human. Werewolf, banshee, kitsune…being the man with the scythe couldn’t be too terrible, could it? If it gives him a better shot at living, he’ll be Death. He lets the irony draw him away from the panic. Who knows what Death is really like? He could be like Death from Good Omens. Terry Pratchett’s Death wasn’t scary or evil. Right?

He makes good time getting dressed and manages to leave an egg white omelet out for his dad to deter him from a more bacon-centered breakfast. Scott is pulling up on his bike as Stiles jumps out of the jeep in his usual sprawl of graceless flailing. So that’s one thing that hasn’t changed. No inhuman grace here, thanks.

“Stiles!” Scott calls, waving. They have mostly different classes this year but they’ve started their mornings in the parking lot together pretty much since middle school.

“Bro,” Stiles says, accepting the half-hug from Scott. “How’s Liam?”

Scott shrugs.

“I don’t know man, it was bad. He’s really shook up, and we still don’t know why they took him. If it hadn’t been for Theo…” Scott trails off, looking sideways at Stiles. He knows Scott wants him to like Theo, and maybe it’s just that Stiles wasn’t there for the dramatic rescue, but something still feels _wrong_ about him. Something other than whatever might be brewing between him and Malia. He can’t help but be skeptical that Theo managed to break down a fence that none of the other prisoners had been able to touch.

“Yeah, well…” Stiles says noncommittally, and shrugs. “It’s not gonna end until we figure out what the hell the Dread Doctors are trying to do.” Something is prickling at the back of his mind about them, but he can’t put his finger on what it is. 

“I know. Maybe Deaton will know something more when he gets back. Until then, we need to keep an eye on each other. No one disappears, no one goes anywhere alone,” Scott says.

It’s a bit late for that, Stiles thinks, but still, Scott’s not wrong. At least they’ll know if someone else gets taken.

“Buddy system, dude, sure,” Stiles nods, gripping the strap of his backpack and trying not to fidget too much. “I have AP Calc with Lydia first, I’ll let her know.”

 “Alright, Stiles. I’ll see you later, man,” Scott grips his shoulder firmly and then heads off to pre-calc.

Stiles can tell something is different the minute he steps into the classroom. Lydia has always been a kind of beacon to him. She is beautiful, and brilliant, and Stiles has loved her pretty much every way he knows how, first as his dream girl and then as his friend. 

Now, though, he sees her as she is. The rest of the class looks dull in comparison. He’d thought she glowed before, her strawberry hair bright and shining like a sun. He was wrong. Lydia is not a sun at all. She’s a black hole, a mass of gravity he can’t help but be pulled towards. Lydia is staring back at him, her perfectly glossed mouth dropped open in muted shock. He thinks, if she screamed her banshee scream, it would sound beautiful to him, like a siren. He drops his bag on the desk next to hers and plunks down. 

Lydia snaps out of her shock, though her eyes are still wide and intense as she looks at him.

“Stiles, _what the hell_ ,” she hisses. Her eyes dart up and down his body. He doesn’t know what she sees. 

“Ok, I can explain, kind of, but first…I look different to you?” he whispers. She scoots her desk a little closer and bends over in an attempt at privacy. 

“You’re covered in death. It’s like _everywhere_ ,” she says, voice low and urgent. 

“What’s it look like?” he asks, curious. Is it the same as she looks to him?

Lydia looks contemplative for a moment, and her eyes glaze. 

“Like…like time and space are being pulled together. Or like what a star looks like in the moments after it goes supernova. Like all the endings in the world end with you. Like all of that and none of it. I don’t know, Stiles, it looks like what death looks like!” she says, speeding up in the end in frustration.

“You look like a black hole,” the words fall out of his mouth. “Wait, I mean, not like in a bad way, I just – ” 

“No, I actually know what you mean,” Lydia says thoughtfully, pursing her lips and waving a dismissive hand at the comment. “It’s like an absence but also kind of like the heaviest weight you could imagine.” 

Stiles nods frenetically. Lydia furrows her perfectly plucked brows at him.

“You couldn’t see it before, and now it’s like you’ve become it. So I ask again, _what did you do_ ,” she demands.

“It’s complicated?” Stiles says, shrugging his shoulders timidly. “I don’t know, something happened to me last night.” He gets ready to try and explain when Mr. Garland starts talking about definite integrals.

Stiles grabs a sheet of paper and writes “Lunch? Don’t tell Scott, pls!!!” with the second sentence underlined three times. Lydia reads it and nods slowly, and he lets out a small breath of relief. If Lydia says she won’t tell, she won’t tell. The thing about Lydia, the thing that caught his attention when they were just kids and kept it for so long, is that Lydia is compelled to understand the things she doesn’t know. She is insatiably curious, and she is willing to risk a lot to get answers. It’s a trait they both share, and he wonders now whether the reason they’ve slipped so quickly into friendship is simply that they ask the same things of the world.

The morning drags on, but lunch eventually arrives and Lydia heads him off before he can even grab something from the lunch line.

“Lyds!” he yelps. She pulls him past Scott and Kira, who are just heading into the cafeteria. Kira raises her eyebrows, glancing between them curiously. 

“Calc thing,” Stiles calls back, and Scott makes a commiserating face and waves them off. 

Once they’re outside, sitting by the side of the building in the grass where Lydia is sure they won’t have eavesdroppers, she starts. 

“Ok, Stiles, spill,” she says. 

So he explains as best he can. He doesn’t remember everything, some of it is blurry, dreamlike, but Lydia looks properly shocked when he gets to the part about what he can only describe as freeing souls with the scythe. 

“So the Nemeton did this?” she asks.

“Sort of?” Stiles says. “I don’t know so much that she did it so much as she was…waiting for me, maybe? I got the feeling it was Scott, actually.” 

“What do you mean, Scott?” she asks. “I thought he didn’t know.” 

“No, he doesn’t,” Stiles says, and adds frantically, “and please, please don’t tell him. I don’t even know how to begin to explain this in a way that doesn’t sound bad, and he doesn’t get it, Lyds. He doesn’t see it the way you and I do. He won’t understand that it isn’t evil.”

“Ok, but then how is this his fault?” she pushes.

“It’s not a matter of fault, really. It’s just…he’s the True Alpha. We already know he’s upset the balance of things. And we know that Alphas are created with the death of the previous alpha, right? Except _not with Scott_ ,” he says. “He didn’t kill any alphas but he became like a totally super powered alpha anyway.”

Lydia’s face opens with understanding.          

“And he left an imbalance when he did,” she finished his thought. “The Druids who worshipped the Nemeton always honored balance above all.”

“So she’s balancing the scales, and she’s using me to do it,” Stiles says. “Scott is life, vitality, and I’m…” 

“Death,” Lydia finishes. “You’re literally death.” 

Stiles shrugs. They both sit in silence for a moment as Lydia lets it sink in. 

“That’s not actually all,” Stiles says after he feels like enough time has passed to move on to the next revelation. Lydia bites her thumb, as close as she comes to fidgeting and clearly preoccupied, but listening. “The person who’s been taking the bodies? I think they’re like us. I think they’re connected to death somehow, too.” 

“Yeah, about that,” Lydia says. “It’s been bugging me since I saw you this morning. I didn’t figure it out right away because it doesn’t feel exactly the same as with you, but it’s there. You felt drawn to me, right? Like a magnet, almost?” 

“Yeah,” Stiles responds. “It was like you were just more there than everyone else.” 

“Well, I’ve felt that before with someone else, I just didn’t realize that’s what it was,” she says. 

“Who?” Stiles asks, leaning forward. 

“Deputy Parrish,” she says. “I thought I just liked him, that we had some kind of connection. And obviously we do, it’s just…not exactly the connection I thought it was. Or at least not only that.” 

Stiles feels the pieces falling into place. He nods slowly. 

“He’s never been with us when the bodies have been taken. And we know he’s some kind of creature, he was on the deadpool. I think he’s been taking the bodies to the Nemeton. They were ashes but I could tell they were there.”

Lydia bites her lip. 

“He told me he dreamed of being on fire. And he doesn’t get burned,” she says. “We did a thing with a lighter.” 

“You don’t think…phoenix?” Stiles tries.

            “It would make sense,” Lydia says, tilting her head. “There’s definitely the life and death connection, plus the resistance to fire. The phoenix is all about the balance between life and death. The constant cycle of death and rebirth. That could be why he doesn’t feel exactly the same as you and I do.” 

“Right,” Stiles says. “We’re both pretty firmly on the death side of the equation, but he must be right in the middle.” He pauses. “I think he’s trying to help them.” 

“Help them?” Lydia asks. Her tone is hopeful, he thinks. She obviously really does like Parrish.

“I think he’s trying to free them. I think he hears the Nemeton, too, and he’s bringing them to her to help,” he says thoughtfully. “Only he couldn’t do it because that’s not his part to play, it’s mine.” 

Lydia smiles softly. 

“We should tell him,” she says. 

“Maybe leave the part about me being some kind of grim reaper out for now. I think that’s probably a lot to take all at once, and I want my dad to be the first one I tell once we know how this works,” he says.

“That’s another thing,” Lydia says. “I’ve done a ton of research on death since we figured out what I was, but the information on death itself is shoddy at best. All of it conflicts, and none of the real stuff so far has mentioned an actual anthropomorphized version of death. And you know I am thorough. If it was in anything we have access to, I would have found it.” 

“Which means either we don’t have access to the information, or it hasn’t happened before. I was definitely not the first person to use that scythe, and the whole grim reaper reaping up souls myth had to come from somewhere,” he says, hand massaging his temple. He closes his eyes. 

“I think I know who I need to talk to,” Stiles says. Lydia only takes a moment to follow his train of thought. 

“Stiles, no. Peter won’t help us and we know we can’t trust him,” Lydia says.

“Lyds, he brought himself back from the dead. He knew enough to use you to bring himself back. At the moment, he’s probably the best resource we have, and he’s the only one we know has actual, practical knowledge,” he explains. He’s not entirely thrilled with the idea himself. 

“I still don’t like it. Anyway, Stiles, he’s in Eichen House. You can’t just waltz in to see him,” Lydia says, but he can tell she’s already scheming a way to get him in. She wants answers as much as he does. 

“It’s not like I’m just going to take his word at face value. But he’s the devil we know and frankly, with all this new shit popping up everyday courtesy of the dread doctors, we can’t exactly sit here with our thumbs up our asses,” Stiles says, shrugging. 

Lydia drags a hand through her hair and sighs. 

“I know,” she says.

They spend the rest of their lunch break planning a way into Eichen House.

 

* * *

 

 

It takes another week and a half before Stiles is ready to visit Peter. So far, he’s woken up next to the Nemeton two more times, though at least the scythe had stayed in the shadow valley instead of being a new and awkward addition to his usual morning wood. Lydia has managed to gain some kind of visiting release – and he really does not want to know how she did that – but it only covers one of them. Lydia is still holding a grudge against Peter, so Stiles is the one who’s going in. He’s the one with the real questions, anyway. Lydia and Stiles may both be on the same side of the life-death spectrum, but it’s clear Stiles is significantly farther down the line.

They haven’t told Scott yet. Scott’s been busy watching over Liam and Hayden, and through them over Mason and Brett, too. Technically, Stiles figures since he and Lydia have been working together, he’s followed Scott’s rules to buddy up. Once he’s in Eichen House, the security will have to be enough. Lydia knows where he is. He won’t be missing for long if something gets him. 

Stiles walks up to the counter and gives over his identification and the papers Lydia had acquired from who knows where. The orderly demands Stiles empty his pockets. All he’s got with him are his wallet, keys, and cellphone, and he hands them over. Memories of being a patient here are still fresh, and Stiles can feel the anxiety rising up in his throat, choking him. 

Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe he should’ve just risked telling Scott, or even just dad. He fingers tap anxiously against the counter. He puts his hands back in his pockets, and then pulls them out again quickly.  The orderly has him sign the sign-in sheet. There are only two people before him, today. People trapped in Eichen House don’t generally get visitors. 

“This way to the secure ward,” the orderly says blandly. 

“Great. Fantastic,” Stiles mutters, and follows him. 

They go through three different locked doors, the orderly swiping his keycard each time. The fourth set of doors requires a password, and Stiles has to turn around before the guy will type it in. He’s brought to a room with a table nailed down to the floor. Two chairs sit on either side, each bolted down with what looks like some heavy-duty equipment. The fluorescent lights give the orderly’s skin a sickly glow, and Stiles can’t imagine his own looks any better. The place feels wrong. Not like death, but like something unclean. Like it’s rotting from the inside. 

“You sit there,” the orderly says, pointing at the chair on the far side of the room. The other side, Stiles can see, is equipped with a ring to chain prisoners to, the kind that keeps them from strangling their visitors. 

Stiles is left in the room alone while the guards presumably go to fetch Peter. The lights flicker and Stiles closes his eyes, trying to stave off the panic. Of all the terrible things that have happened in Beacon Hills since Scott was bitten, this place was the start of Stiles’ worst moments. He jerks up in shock as he hears the door being unlocked again, and stares in horror at the hand that is currently, once again, holding the scythe. 

 _Back!_ He thinks frantically, watching the knob turn. _Go back_! 

He must have summoned it in his panic. It disappears, reluctantly, he thinks, just as the door swings open. 

The orderly steps in first, but Stiles hardly notices. 

He’d thought that the pull toward Lydia had been strong, but he was wrong. He was so very wrong. If Lydia was the pull of gravity, the star gone supernova, Peter is the supermassive black hole at the center of the galaxy. Stiles feels as if the very atoms of his body are being pulled towards Peter. And Peter, who on the surface looks more ragged than Stiles has seen him since the day they set him on fire, looks back at Stiles with unadulterated shock. Lydia is a part of death, its harbinger, but death is woven through Peter’s whole body like he was made from dark matter just for Stiles. Peter takes a step towards him, as if he’s been pulled against his will, before he visibly reasserts his control. Stiles thinks that if he’d been standing, if he wasn’t sitting weak-kneed in the hard plastic chair, he might not have been able to stop himself from going to him. 

Peter’s eyes don’t move from Stiles though he keeps his face blank, taking him in with something as close to wonder as Peter has ever shown. The orderly chains Peter to the table. 

“You have fifteen minutes,” he says to Stiles, and goes to wait outside. Stiles barely hears him.

They sit in silence for a few seconds. Stiles is concentrating too hard on not going over to touch Peter to think of what to say, and that is a goddamned sour pill to swallow. Or it would be, if he could remember why he shouldn’t find Peter so attractive in the first place, in pretty much the most literal sense possible.

“You’ve been busy,” Peter finally says with an attempt at his usual sass, but his voice comes out low and hoarse. He doesn’t stop looking at Stiles, his gaze intense and full of a hunger for something Stiles has. Stiles takes a breath, reasserts his control over himself.

“You know what I am,” Stiles says, not really a question. He can’t seem to take his eyes off Peter. Doesn’t really want to.

“You are become Death,” Peter says, like he’s quoting something. “It was the Nemeton, wasn’t it?” He leans forward, getting closer to Stiles, eyes flicking back and forth across Stiles’ face.

“She called to me,” Stiles finds himself saying. He shouldn’t be giving Peter more information than absolutely necessary but now that he’s here, now that he sees what Peter _is_ , he thinks he understands. Peter is the hand of death. Forged by blood with the death of his family and the lives he ended in revenge. He is Orpheus, who charmed Hades himself and so walked the underworld and came back again. 

“It’s because of Scott, isn’t it,” Stiles says. “It felt like it was because of Scott, but I don’t know anything for sure, I…” he trails off. Peter nods slowly, but his eyes never leave Stiles’ face. 

“There is a balance that must be maintained,” Peter says, voice growing surer as he speaks. “The alpha power is driven by the balance between life and death. It’s about energy, Stiles.” The way he says Stiles’ name makes him shiver. Peter sees it, and the corners of his mouth quirk up sharply. “Energy is a constant. Surely you’re familiar with the first law of thermodynamics? Energy cannot be created or destroyed, it can only change forms. When Scott became a True Alpha, he had to take that energy from somewhere. In doing so, he pulled that power from death, but he gave nothing back in return. He left an imbalance.” 

“I’m the balance,” Stiles fills in, voice husky. Peter nods.

“I thought perhaps it would be me,” Peter says frankly. “It’s true, I wanted Scott’s power. But Stiles, it was more than that, too. You wouldn’t have been able to understand it then, but now that you see…” He pauses, regroups. “To me, Scott’s existence was wrong. By killing him…” Peter starts. 

“You would reset the scales,” Stiles finishes for him. “Death for power, like it’s always been.” It is a brutal understanding, and Stiles hates the fact that he understands it at all. 

“But I failed,” Peter nods, wryly. “And so the Nemeton found another way to seek balance. If she could not take back the power directly…” 

“She’d take it from somewhere else. A counter-balance. But why me?” Stiles asks quietly.

“It could be a number of reasons. You were already touched by death and chaos. More now than the last time we met, I think,” Peter says perceptively. Stiles doesn’t say anything, so Peter continues. “You were already linked to the Nemeton from your sacrifice. Your heart stopped, Stiles. You’ve walked through the valley of the shadows and returned. And you’ve taken life before, shared your mind with an agent of chaos and destruction. It could have been Allison just as easily as you, I would think, but in the end she was defeated and you were not. 

“It’s entropy. The system needs chaos, Stiles. It needs death. We move towards equilibrium, always. And now, with you, it appears we have it again,” he finishes. He hasn’t once looked away from Stiles. His eyes, his lips, the moles he knows are scattered across his face and neck. 

Stiles doesn’t know what to say, or do. He aches to be closer to Peter. Even battered as he is, he is jagged and beautiful. He doesn’t want to be opposed to Scott, doesn’t want to understand why Peter would have tried to kill him. Doesn’t want to forgive him for it. He finds he has already done both. 

“I don’t want to kill,” Stiles says, honestly. “I don’t want to take lives. I will, if I have to, but…” 

“Ah, I see,” Peter says. “That isn’t precisely what you need to do, Stiles.” Stiles wishes Peter would stop saying his name. Wants him to say nothing but his name. God, he’s so confused. He _wants_. 

“You are the connection between this world and the next,” Peter continues, “but you needn’t be the blade that draws the blood. You see, Stiles,” Peter leans in as close as he can with the chains still binding him to the table, and Stiles can’t help but be drawn in, feels his body turn in to Peter, collected like so many iron filaments. “You reap souls. You sever their connection to this world and guide them to the next. But one must sever the soul from the body first. And that? That’s what _I’m_ for.” 

Stiles huffs out a breath, nods once. Peter is a killer. He knows this like he’s known it from the beginning. It should bother him but instead he’s so turned on he can barely move. And Peter, God, Peter is looking at him with the kind of reverent focus most people reserve for holy scripture or the birth of their first born. Like Stiles is the answer to every question he’d ever thought to ask, and a few he’d never thought of at all. 

“My place is beside you, Stiles,” Peter whispers it like a promise, eyes intent. Stiles doesn’t need to trust Peter to know it’s the truth. 

“I know,” he says, finally acknowledging it out loud. Peter smiles at him. Not the smirk he usually throws out, but something small and genuine. Something that’s just for Stiles, now. 

“Our time is almost up,” Peter says, looking away for the first time since he entered the room. His eyes flicker back to Stiles quickly. “You need to get me out of here.” 

“I know,” he says, throwing his hands up in frustration. “But how?”

“You are Death, now, Stiles. The shadows are your domain. You can walk them,” Peter says, hushed and hurried.  “My apartment. The penthouse at 572 Briar Hills. The code to my door is 1373. There’s a drawer under my bed. Read the book. You’ll know which one. Then come for me.” 

They both hear the orderly shuffling outside the door, fitting the key into the lock. 

“Do you hear me, Stiles?” Peter whispers urgently now, close as he can get. “ _Come for me_.” 

“I will, I promise, I will,” Stiles says. He has to do something. He has to – letting instinct guide him, Stiles pushes forward over the table, hands gripping Peter’s shirt, and presses his lips to Peter’s, desperate for the contact. Peter responds immediately, pushing back, opening Stiles mouth with the force of his tongue, taking, taking, taking.

Stiles gasps as they both draw back just as the door swings open. His lips are swelling up, his eyes glazed over, and he looks away from the orderly as he enters, trying to collect himself. 

“Time’s up,” the orderly says, monotone. He obviously wasn’t paying attention to what was going on in the room. Stiles thinks it’s probably lucky for him Peter wanted to kiss him instead of kill him. 

Stiles nods and steps away from the table as the orderly unchains Peter and begins to push him out the door. Peter doesn’t fight him, instead keeps looking at Stiles, eyes practically black with want. 

“I’ll be back,” Stiles says, voice coming out more wrecked than he expects. 

Peter nods, and then he’s gone. 

Stiles waits for the orderly to return, his hands tightened into fists. He breathes deeply, tells his body to calm down, to be patient. The orderly returns to guide him out of the facility, past the locked doors and windowless hallways. Stiles thinks of what Peter said. This whole place is covered in shadows. He resists the temptation to turn back, to try futilely to bring Peter with him now. He’ll have answers soon. Peter’s book, his apartment, will have to be enough for the moment. Lydia will help, once she understands. She has to.

Once he knows enough, he’ll come back for Peter.

He collects his things, steps outside, and clicks on Lydia’s name in his phone. She’ll understand, once he explains. He makes the call.

 

* * *

 

Stiles stands outside Peter’s apartment. Lydia taps her foot next to him, looking back and forth across the hallway as if something is going to jump them from behind the corner. It had taken several hours to talk her into coming. She still isn’t convinced about breaking Peter out.

He gets it. It’s one thing to understand, objectively, why something is happening. It’s another to just expect someone to get over a traumatic experience just because they understand why it happened. What Peter had done to Lydia had made her question the sanctity of her mind. Stiles knows what that feels like. He’d shared space with the Nogitsune, had felt that lack of control intimately. He knows what it is to doubt your own perceptions, to question whether you can trust your own senses. Peter had done that to her. That the alternative for him had been death didn’t mean Lydia would forgive him for it. 

He types in the code and the door beeps open. Peter’s apartment is massive. He’d known the Hales had money. They must, if they had $117 million dollars in bearer bonds alone to steal from a safe. It’s another thing, though, to see that money laid out in tangible things. 

It’s less modern than he would have expected. Not as many sharp corners, not as much chrome. There is a richness that bleeds out of everything, though. Plush leather couches and chairs furnish the living area, giant burnished wood bookshelves line the walls. To his surprise, there’s no TV, but the kitchen is full of new appliances. A fancy coffee machine sits next to an even more expensive-looking espresso machine, which is something Stiles can get behind. It’s not precisely what he would have anticipated, but he can picture Peter at home here in this space with its mahogany floors and the soft, richly colored throw blankets draped elegantly over the couches and chairs. 

Even Lydia, arbiter of taste that she is, looks mildly impressed. She moves towards the bookshelves, which, from what Stiles can see, contain books in several languages. He spots Russian, Spanish, and French, but there may be others. He’ll come back later to look. These books, however interesting, aren’t what he came for. 

He leaves Lydia browsing and wanders down the hall, looking for the master bedroom. He passes what he presumes is a guest bedroom and then a study. He pokes his head in curiously. Peter’s laptop rests on a desk pushed up against the far wall. This room, too, is filled with books. Peter may have teased Derek endless times about his luddite tendencies, but it’s clear that he, too, doesn’t shy away from ink and paper. He figures Peter must have digitized their bestiary himself, perhaps added to it from the variety of books he’s collected over the years. Some of them look very old. 

Stiles passes the rest of the way down the hall until he reaches what appears to be the master bedroom. Peter’s bed is large, a California King, Stiles thinks. Contrary to Stiles’ expectations of a grand, four-poster bed, the chocolate colored headboard caps off a low, simple bedframe. The mattress only reaches to Stiles thighs. The effect makes the room look even larger. The bed isn’t made. Peter was clearly expecting to return here, and his things are scattered about casually. 

Stiles resists the urge to bury his face into the pillow and just breathe in the scent. The whole room smells like Peter even though it’s been months since he’s been here. The amber and musk of his cologne and the scent of his body permeate the space like they’ve seeped straight into the wood. Stiles may not have the senses of a werewolf, but every home has a unique smell and this place is all Peter. He loses the fight with himself. He picks up the pillow closest to him and brings it close, lets himself inhale slowly. His stomach aches with want. 

He’s never had this kind of reaction to Peter before. Sure, he can recognize that Peter has always been attractive in a sleazy rich guy sort of way – something he made deeply apparent with his indecently low V-necks – but the killing spree, and particularly the attempts to murder Stiles’ best friend, had pretty much put the kibosh on any untoward thoughts. Not anymore. 

Now that Stiles knows what Peter is made of, what he is at his core…now that Stiles himself has changed, he finds he can’t resist the pull in his stomach or the ache in his groin. He wants Peter, more than he has ever wanted anyone else. 

He hears the click of Lydia’s heels coming down the hall and puts the pillow back on the bed. He hasn’t quite been able to explain to her the pull he feels for Peter on the physical level. He had left out the kiss when he’d described their conversation at Eichen House, though he’s pretty sure she suspects that he hasn’t told her everything. He’d described what he felt for Peter like what the two of them felt towards each other only…more. More intense, more visceral. Primal. 

That Lydia didn’t feel the pull towards Peter, too, made Stiles think that maybe there was something more at play going on between all of them. Lydia had mentioned more than once that she felt powerfully drawn to Parrish. Maybe it was something else to do with balance. Everything seemed to come back to that these days. 

Lydia wanders into the room and looks around briefly. 

“Under the bed, he said?” she says, looking doubtfully down at what appears to be a solid wood platform. 

“There’s a drawer somewhere,” Stiles counters. He goes to the right side, where it looks like Peter gravitates, and Lydia checks the left. The platform is smooth, solid wood and he doesn’t feel anything like a latch or a drawer. 

“Got it!” Lydia says from the other side. Stiles rises and, without thinking about it, crawls over the bed instead of walking around it, leaving him sprawled out as he pops his head over the edge to look. Lydia raises an eyebrow at him but says nothing. They both know his scent will be left behind for the werewolf to smell. He’s sure she’s mentally filed away another piece of evidence that something is going on between him and Peter.

 In the drawer are several antique looking books. They’re made of the kind of sturdy, thick paper that older books often used. More expensive to make, but they last hundreds of years instead of just decades. They aren’t even really falling apart. Lydia starts pulling them out of the drawer when Stiles stops her. He reaches in and grabs a book with a leather cover dyed a deep red, nearly black. On its cover is an artfully rendered scythe.

“This is the one,” he says. The book feels powerful. It has the same pull as Stiles feels towards the Nemeton, only muted a bit.

“Well, perfect,” Lydia scans the remaining books and picks up two to take with her. She puts the others back in the drawer and shuts it. “Then we can go.”

Stiles hesitates, biting his lip.

“Well, actually…” he starts.

 “You’re going to stay here,” Lydia fills in. “In Peter’s apartment. Where Peter lives.”

“It’s not like anyone else is using it,” he says. “Look, I can’t risk my dad stumbling on any of this stuff until I find a way to tell him his trouble-making spawn has managed to turn himself into some kind of Druidic grim reaper.”

Lydia looks at him, concerned.

“Just be careful, Stiles,” she says. “I know there’s more to this thing with Peter than you’ve mentioned. Don’t do anything reckless.”

He shrugs his shoulders.

“Reckless is kind of what we do, Lyds, or hadn’t you noticed the frequency with which we run into near death situations?” he says wryly.

She smirks.

“Fair enough,” she says, rising up from the floor to head towards the door. “Just know that if you get in too deep, I’m not dragging you out again.”

“That, Lydia Martin, is a bald faced lie, and you know it,” Stiles grins.

“Oh?” she raises an eyebrow.

“Yup,” Stiles nods. “If I were gone, who would compete with you for valedictorian?”

“Oh, please, Stiles,” Lydia waves him off dismissively, but her smile is genuine. “As if _you_ could beat me for valedictorian.”

“You’ll never know for sure if I die!” he smiles back cheerfully.

He follows her out to the front door. She turns back as she exits.

“Seriously, Stiles,” she says. “Be careful.”

“I will,” he says. It’s a lie and they both know it, but she lets it go. He watches her saunter down towards the elevator.

He closes the door and leans against it for a moment, eyes closed. He inhales the scent of leather and wood and Peter, and gets ready to get to work.

 

* * *

 

Stiles has been visiting Peter’s apartment almost every afternoon for the last week to read from the book. He’s quickly discovered that, though it isn’t written in English, he has no trouble understanding the meaning. The book is large, and there’s not exactly a table of contents, so Stiles has been tabbing it as he goes through. He’s already stumbled on the resurrection ritual he thinks Peter used. Some parts of the book cover Necromancy, others, the reaping. From what he’s seen, Peter had chosen the least destructive of the rituals, though it was not the one with the fastest recovery. He doubts that will endear Peter to Lydia but he’s glad to see that Peter’s first instinct isn’t always murder.

 Though that’s what Stiles wants him for, isn’t it? That’s what he’s going to do. Stiles doesn’t want to kill, but he’s going to let Peter do it for him. His own personal Hellhound.

 He only gets a few hours here each day, sometimes less, so it’s been slow going. He’s had to dodge Scott once or twice, but it’s been two weeks since the Dread Doctors have come up with anything new. Not since this whole thing started for him. He’s not sure whether there’s a connection there, either. It’s impossible to tell without more information. The Pack is on the alert, but safe for the moment. He’s been skimming all but the relevant passages for now. Once he has Peter back, the rest they can go through together.

 At least he knows what Peter was talking about now. The book calls them the Hollow Men. The ones who control death. This is what he is, now. They can walk between the shadows into the place between the earth and what comes after. This is where his scythe goes when he sends it elsewhere. A place outside of time and space. It sounds terrifying, but he somehow knows that the place he sees in his mind, the valley of shadows, is safe for him. One cannot go into the valley and come out of it without being touched by death, the book says. Stiles doesn’t think they have to worry. He is Death itself, and Peter’s soul is so woven through with it that he should pass through unharmed.

 He decides to try it. He should probably wait for Lydia, but Peter is stuck in Eichen House without him and he knows exactly how horrible it is there. Everything about the place feels wrong, twisted up and corrupted. Once he knows it works, he will show her.

 He gets up, turns off all the lights, and closes the blinds in the living room. There are shadows aplenty now. He shuts his eyes and the Valley is there behind his eyelids, waiting. He takes a step forward and then he is nowhere.  He doesn’t have the words to describe it. It is not hot, not cold. There is no wind, no ground. Just miles and miles of endless shadow, sweeping around him, and through him.

 He lifts a hand and it comes to him, circles around him like a shroud. It feels like Lydia, like Peter. Like something that is a part of him and not. It winds around and around him like a caress and he relishes the sense of belonging. This is his place. Peter can come here. Lydia, too. Maybe even Parrish, if they are right about him.

 He concentrates on Peter’s bedroom and takes a step forward. His foot lands on hard wood. He did it. He did it!

 “Wooo!” he pumps his fists in the air and dances in a circle. “Fuck yeah! How do you like me now, bitch!” he crows.

 He decides this success deserves a victory espresso. Peter’s fancy machines make some of the best coffee Stiles has ever had and he’s going to need the caffeine to keep him up tonight anyway. Peter won’t begrudge him his expensive espresso beans when he comes to collect him tonight.

 Stiles shivers in anticipation while the machine works its magic.  He grabs his phone and to text Lydia.

  **Did it. Going tonight.**

The response is near immediate.

  **Will meet you at his place. Midnight.**

He wasn’t expecting her to want to be there but of course she does. Peter would probably prefer to be alone with him, but there’s no way Lydia will agree to that yet. Once she sees them together she’ll know anyway.  Besides, she’ll need to know if something goes wrong.

 The machine pings, and Stiles reaches down to inhale the scent of fresh espresso. Peter will be with him soon. The rest will work itself out later.

 

* * *

 

“I don’t see why you can’t take me with you,” Lydia says, distrustful of Peter and not particularly fond of letting someone else experience the valley of shadows before she does.

 “Because I haven’t brought anyone else along yet, Lyds,” he says, pulling the black hoodie up over his head to hide his face from any cameras. “We don’t know how it will affect people who aren’t me. Do you really want to be the test case if it goes wrong? You’ll be right here when we get back, and if there aren’t any issues, I’ll take you next. I promise.”

 Lydia glares.

 “Fine,” she says. “But make sure Peter knows I’m here, waiting, and I’m armed,” she raises up a crossbow, a gift from Chris Argent after they’d all lost Allison.

 Stiles smiles mischievously.

 “Don’t worry, I’ll tell him,” he says. “Peter isn’t stupid enough to underestimate you, Lydia.”

 “OK,” she says, appeased. “Lights out should have been at 10. That means the rooms should be dark enough that you can pass through without a problem. Get in and out as fast as possible.”

 “Got it,” Stiles nods. Impulsively, he leans in to kiss her on the cheek. “Thanks, Lyds. I know you don’t understand why I have to do this but…well, thank you.”

 Lydia purses her lips, trying to hide her smile.

 “Yeah, well. Just come back safe. The clusterfuck that is going to be figuring this out afterwards is all on you,” she says, stepping back.

 He looks at her one last time, and steps into the shadows.

 

He gives himself a moment to acclimate. The shadows swirl to meet him. He doesn’t know what Peter’s room looks like so he just pictures Peter, concentrates, and steps forward again.

 The room is cold and black, and he trips over the side of the bed and lands on his knees on the hard mattress but it’s ok, it’s all ok because that pulling feeling means –

 “Peter,” Stiles exhales, but Peter is already sitting up and latching on to his shoulders with clawed hands. His eyes shine neon blue.

 “Stiles,” he whispers, and pulls Stiles bodily into his lap. The blue disappears as Peter closes his eyes and pushes the hoodie down to nose up Stiles neck, breathing him in. “Stiles.”

 Stiles gasps, tries not to moan at the feeling of Peter’s lips marking his way up the tendons of his neck, the hardness he feels brushing against him as he settles. He can feel himself growing hard in return, wanting to pull Peter closer, wanting no space between them at all. Wanting to never leave this bed in this horrible, horrible place so long as Peter stays, too. His hands go up to grip the muscles of Peter’s shoulders. He can’t stop the whimper that leaves his mouth. He’s probably lucky it isn’t a full-blown moan. Peter’s chest rumbles in response.

 “Peter,” he hisses, trying to gain some control back, just for a moment, just enough to get them home. “Peter, we have to get out of here, Lydia’s waiting at your apartment. She has a crossbow.” Peter keeps mouthing his neck, intent on sucking what will definitely end up being a visible mark.

 He finally stops after about a minute and just breathes against Stiles’ neck. Stiles already feels the giant hickey forming but at the moment he doesn’t care.

 “Are you ready?” Stiles asks, pulling back to stand but unable to completely remove his hands from Peter. It doesn’t matter anyway. Peter follows him like he’s magnetized. “Peter?”

 “Yes,” Peter’s voice comes out sounding totally wrecked, as if putting his lips on Stiles has completely destroyed his ability to speak. “Do it.”

 Stiles nods and slides his hands around Peter’s waist. He leans in, drops a chaste kiss on Peter’s lips, and steps forward into him.

 He hears Peter’s gasp as he opens his eyes. He checks over him frantically, afraid for a moment it’s all gone wrong, but Peter’s face shows only fascination. He reaches his hand up and, as with Stiles, the shadows swirl around his wrist. Stiles smiles. When he calls them forward, the slivers of inky blackness wrap around them both like an embrace. Peter smiles back and rests their faces together.

 “You,” he presses a soft kiss to the laugh line of Stiles cheek. “Are,” a kiss to his eyelid. “Magnificent.” He drops a final kiss to the center of his mouth and then stays there, sharing Stile’s breath.

 “We should get back to Lydia,” Stiles says, after what feels like minutes. He knows no time passes in the real world while they’re here, frozen outside of time, but they’d spent more time in Peter’s room at Eichen House than he’d meant to. Peter’s nose nudges against Stiles’ when he nods his assent, but he doesn’t let go, doesn’t step back.

 “Ok,” Stiles whispers, even though there’s no one to hear them here. Lydia pretty much knows about them already. Stiles steps further into Peter and they are back in Peter’s living room, lips still barely touching, eyes closed.

 “Well, this is reassuring,” Lydia’s voice comes from his right. “Glad to see you haven’t been reckless.”

 Stiles huffs out a pathetic-sounding laugh and takes a slow step back from Peter. Peter must know Lydia has the crossbow aimed straight at him but he doesn’t seem to care. He just keeps looking at Stiles like there’s nothing else in the room. Stiles looks down to his feet, then over to Lydia.

 She looks…contemplative, is the best word he can come up with as she glances from Peter to Stiles and back. She lowers the crossbow slowly.

 “So when you said you two felt drawn like we did to each other except stronger, you meant totally not like us,” she said, finally. He shrugs.

 “Honestly, Lyds, I don’t think I could keep away from him if I wanted to. It’s…” he reaches for the words.

 “Like breathing again after being buried,” Peter fills in, voice low and even and honest as he finally glances at Lydia and meets her eyes. “Like purpose.” His hand stays gripped around Stiles’ like a lifeline.

 Lydia, rather than shooting Peter, looks as if she knows what he means. She must be thinking of Parrish.

 “What he said,” Stiles smiles at her. He’s still hesitant, but hopeful now. Lydia would be a powerful ally if she decides to help them. He thinks she will, despite her previous reservations.

 Lydia nods thoughtfully.

 “We’re going to have to figure this out soon,” she says. “They’re going to realize Peter is missing in a few hours if they haven’t already. Did anyone have this address?”

 Peter shakes his head.

 “It’s under an alias.” He closes his eyes and breathes in, filtering the scents of the apartment. “No one has been here since I’ve been away except the two of you. If they’d known about it, they would have searched the place. It’s safe.”

 “What about Derek, did he know?” Stiles asks.

 Peter looks back at him, glance weighted.

 “No,” Peter says. “I have several apartments. Derek knew of another one. This one I’ve kept secret. I prefer my resources be private. I have valuable antiquities here, including the books you’ve been borrowing, Ms. Martin,” he said pointedly.

 “How did you…” Stiles starts.

 “Old books tend to carry the distinctive scents of where they’ve been. The older they are, the more idiosyncratic the scent,” he explains. “Lydia smells like she’s been handling my books. As do you.”

  _Fair enough_ , Stiles thinks, subtly trying to sniff at himself. Of course, he smells nothing. Werewolves.

 “Now, if you don’t mind, I haven’t slept in a proper bed in months,” Peter drawls at Lydia. “The problem of my disappearance can be solved in the morning. I have a feeling things in this town have devolved even further since my incarceration, so no doubt we will be dealing with that as well. In the mean time…” he trails off.

 “Right,” Lydia nods. “Let’s go, Stiles.”

 Stiles nods and moves to pull away from Peter. Peter doesn’t release his grip.

 “You stay,” he says softly.

 “My dad is on the night shift but he’ll be back by 7, I really should go…” Stiles says, but doesn’t release Peter’s hand, either.

 “Did you drive yourself?” Peter asks.

 “Oh, for god’s sake,” Lydia huffs. “His car is at home. Keep your phone on, Stiles. Ringer on, alerts on. If they find out Peter’s missing before we expect them to, your dad is going to check on you first. You’ll have to be able to get home immediately. Be back at least an hour before you expect him, ok? 6 at the latest. You can do the shadow thing.”

 “I’ll set an alarm,” Peter assures her.

 “If anything happens to him, I’ll set you on fire and this time you won’t be coming back,” she says.

 “Noted,” Peter walks her to the door. “It’s been a pleasure.”

 “We’ll see,” Lydia responds.

 Peter closes the door after her.

 “So then should I…” Peter’s mouth cuts him off, hard and desperate on his. Stiles moans into his mouth, grasping for his shoulders, forgetting what he was going to say completely. Peter pulls away just far enough to speak.

 “Let’s finish what we started earlier, shall we?”

 “Yes,” Stiles breathes. “Yes.” He pulls Peter back to him.

 Peter grips Stiles’ thighs and lifts them to wrap around his waist, guiding them to his bedroom mostly by luck. Stiles has never been so grateful for the werewolf’s effortless strength. The muscles in Peter’s arms ripple under Stiles’ hands and god, he wants him so badly he thinks he could _die_ from this. Wants to rend them together until it’s impossible to separate them again. Wants to tear down the world and build it back up again for Peter.

They topple onto the bed and Peter groans at the way it already smells like the two of them. He pulls Stiles’ hoodie and shirt over his head in one go and then drags his hands over Stiles’ chest until he’s breathless from the touch, scraping lightly down his sides. All Stiles wants is to feel Peter’s skin, warm and real against him. He reaches clumsily for the shirt still covering Peter’s chest like some kind of sacrilege.

Peter lifts it over his head and throws it across the room, landing back on Stiles, chest to chest. There’s so much heat, so much pull, it’s like he can’t breath. He pulls Peter’s mouth back down to his, sure that the taste of him is so much better than breath, better than air, better than everything.

 They tumble together, losing pieces of clothing one by one until _finally_ there is nothing between them at all and Stiles can’t help the sounds he’s making but it’s ok, Peter is making them, too, Peter is growling and whispering Stiles’ name like it’s the secret to everything. Stiles thinks maybe it is, maybe _he_ is, if Peter believes it.

 Peter’s hand reaches down and grips them together and then Stiles can’t say anything but _Peter_ , over and over and over again before the world blacks out behind his closed eyelids and he can’t say anything at all. Peter follows him over the edge, whispering promises against his mouth, that Stiles is beautiful, that Stiles is everything.

 They lay afterward s for some undetermined length of time, still clinging together, breathing. Stiles plants thoughtless kisses over Peter’s face, wherever he can reach. A cheekbone, the tip of his nose, the groove of his chin. All of him is worthy of worship and Stiles wants to.

 Eventually, Peter gets up and brings a warm, wet washcloth to wipe them both off. He drags it gently over Stiles’ belly, cleaning up their mess. Stiles dozes in and out. Peter leans over him to set his alarm and then pulls Stiles to his chest. They fall asleep in minutes.

 

* * *

 

 

They wake to Stiles’ phone going off around four. It’s his dad. Stiles swipes to accept the call as Peter watches, hand still tight around Stiles’ waist.

 “Dad?” Stiles grumbles with the tone of the recently woken. “What’s wrong, are you ok?”

 “Stiles!” his dad’s voice is sure and strong even through the speaker.  “I’m fine. Are you ok, kid?”

 “What?” Stiles plays at confusion. “Why wouldn’t I be ok? What’s wrong?”

 “Son, Peter escaped from Eichen House,” his dad says. “We don’t know how, but they just put in the call.”

 “And you think he’s coming here?” Stiles asks, meeting Peter’s eyes in the dark.

 “If anything, I think he’d go for Scott again if he doesn’t just hightail it out of here for good,” his dad sighs. “Give Scott a call, would you? Let him know to keep an eye out. We’ll put a patrol unit on his house, just in case.”

 “Ok, dad,” he says. “I will. Be careful!”

 “You, too, Stiles,” his dad says.  “If you suspect he’s there, you call me, ok?”

 “You got it,” Stiles lies.

 “Love you, kid,” his dad says, before the beeps signal the end of the call.

 Stiles lies back down and sighs. Peter pulls him close again. He drops his head to the side to meet Peter’s eyes.

 “I guess that’s my cue,” he says, reaching up to lay a hand on Peter’s chest. Peter smiles at him, soft and knowing.

 “You’ll be back,” Peter promises. “You’re welcome here anytime.” He leans over and gives Stiles a firm kiss. “All the time, if I have anything to say about it.”

 Stiles leans his forehead against Peter’s for a breath, then pulls back.

 “We’re going to have to catch you up on things, but Lydia’s going to have to help,” he says. “Now that you’ve disappeared officially our timeline has sped up a lot. I won’t be able to be here much. Scott will be in protective overdrive. There’s a lot you don’t know about what’s been going on.”

 Peter narrows his eyes.

 “Yes, that does seem to be the case these days,” he says. “But don’t worry.” The smug, toothy smile is back. “I’m a quick study.”

 Stiles grins back.

 “That, I did know,” he says, and pushes himself up and out of the bed. Peter follows him up, as if he can’t quite let him go until the last possible moment. Stiles knows how he feels, unwilling to leave until he absolutely has to.

 “Also,” Peter continues casually, “I find I have a vested interest in your well-being. I won’t accept any threats to that interest.”

 Stiles snorts.

 “That,” he says, running his hands up Peter’s arms, “is a super creepy way of saying you like me.”

 Peter pulls him in abruptly, fingers tight on Stiles hips.

 “Oh, Stiles,” he says, lips brushing against Stiles cheek. “I more than like you.”

 Stiles lets out a breath, enjoys the scratch of Peter’s stubble against his skin.

 “Yeah,” Stiles whispers. “I’m kind of getting that.”

 “And?” Peter nuzzles down his neck.

 “And…me, too,” Stiles sighs. “I – for you…well, just me, too.”

 Peter mutters something against his neck but he can’t quite make out the words. Stiles lets him stay close for another minute before he pulls himself back for good.

 “Ok, I really do have to go,” he says. “Get a phone, ok? A burner. And let me know where you’ll be, if you have to go somewhere. I— ”

 “Stiles,” Peter interrupts, eyebrows raised and smirk in full gear. “This isn’t my first time.”

 Stiles pushes him.

 “Fine, yeah, I know,” he says. “See you soon, Peter.”

 “That,” he hears Peter say as he steps forward into the shadows, “you certainly will.” 

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles texts Scott when he’s back in his bedroom with the short message “Peter’s out of Eichen. Dad put patrol on your house JIC.” Scott may or may not see it before morning, but Stiles isn’t exactly genuinely concerned for his safety. He knows where Peter is, and he won’t be going after Scott again. Not after…well, not anymore.

He texts Lydia next that he’s home and that the word on Peter’s escape is out. She responds almost immediately demanding Stiles meet her an hour before school starts to come up with a strategy. He confirms, and tells her the overpriced coffee drinks are on him. He owes her at least that much.

He’d only slept about four hours at Peter’s but he isn’t able to fall back asleep once he’s in his own bed. It seems cold and empty. He wishes he had Peter’s book to read through, but he’s left it in the apartment. Instead, he considers what he’s going to tell Lydia about what they should do next. He recognizes that the Pack, in general, has been wasting their resources when it comes to Lydia. They’ve been focusing so much on her banshee traits that they’ve forgotten that Lydia is a genius. They haven’t been methodical, and they haven’t been on the same page.

That’s going to have to change. She knows everything he knows, now, all the way down to what happened with Donovan. She hadn’t judged him. Lydia doesn’t heal, either. She understands the stakes, for both of them. And now she knows about Peter, too. Between the three of them, and maybe Parrish, they’re going to have to do better. Plan ahead. The Dread Doctors haven’t taken anyone new yet, haven’t made any more moves at all, but that doesn’t mean they’re gone. Their absence the last two weeks just makes Stiles deeply suspicious. Why did they stop at the same time Stiles visited the Nemeton? Lydia will need to fill Peter in on the Dread Doctor stuff while Stiles tries to keep Scott from getting at Peter.

 In the meantime, Stiles needs to get a handle on what exactly he can do now. Other than shadow hopping, or whatever it’s called, what makes the Hollow Men different? Control over death? Is it that simple, or is there more to it? He’d bet good money Peter has read the book several times over. Once he has a phone, or when he sees him next, maybe…well, he’ll deal with that once they work out the rest.

The most immediate problem is still Peter. Until the others know that he’s around, they’re going to have to play it safe, keep a distance. If he and Lydia can redirect that attention back towards the Dread Doctors, they can make a trail so it looks like Peter’s left. That should buy them some time for Stiles to figure out what he can do. And Stiles needs to tell his dad. He can’t keep lying to him, not about what he is. Which means his dad, at least, will need to know about Peter. He’s going to need Lydia’s help with that. The two of them together might be able to get him to understand. The sooner, the better.

 Stiles lies in bed, eyes closed, until around six, when he gives up even the attempt at sleep. He stops abruptly when he sees himself in the mirror, and goes back his bedroom to text Lydia to bring some concealer. The gigantic hickey Peter left on his neck will fuck up their plans entirely when everyone pretty much knows he and Malia haven’t been seeing much of each other lately. He takes an extra long shower, making sure to scrub every inch of himself of Peter’s scent. Scott isn’t the best tracker, it’s true, but he wouldn’t miss the fact that Stiles smells like he’s rubbed himself all over Peter.

 After 20 minutes of careful cleaning, he dries off. He dabs some aftershave around his neck. Nothing too strong or out of the ordinary, just enough to disguise whatever scents might be leftover. He throws on some clean clothes and texts his dad to let him know he’s leaving early to meet Lydia.

 It’s a short drive to the Starbucks on Main and they open at six.  He gets a black coffee for himself and a skinny vanilla latte for Lydia, extra hot so it will still be drinkable when she gets it.  Lydia texts that she’s on her way as he’s getting back in the jeep. He sends her back a picture of her latte, and heads out.

 The parking lot at school is practically empty this early. Aside from the swim team, no one gets to school before 7:30 at the very earliest. Lydia parks next to him and he hops out of the jeep to hand her the latte. She looks tired, but beautiful as always. She takes the latte and places it on the roof of her car before turning to grab something from the passenger seat. She comes back with some kind of canister.

“What is that,” Stiles asks. “Is that hairspray? Why do you have hairspray?”

 Lydia shakes the bottle and takes off the lid.

 “Body makeup,” she says, and proceeds to spray it over the bruise on his neck. She squints her eyes pensively, touches it up with another spray or two, and then says “give it a minute to dry. It will stay on better than concealer. Better coverage. They use it to cover up tattoos on TV. I used it to cover up the bruises when all this first started, before I realized I didn’t need to.”

 “Cool,” he says, impressed. “Thanks. Peter was a little enthusiastic.”

 “Yeah, about that,” Lydia says.

 “Look, I know you don’t trust him, or approve, or whatever, and I’m not saying I expect you to right away but – ” Stiles starts.

 “Actually,” Lydia interrupts, “if you’d let me finish, I was going to say…I see what you mean, with the two of you. With what he said. I’m not saying I totally trust him, or that I’ll take his word for anything, but I can see it. When I look at you both, I can literally see the connection, the same way we see death. You pull each other in.”

 Stiles bites his lip and nods.

 “It was intense,” he says, running his fingers through his hair restlessly. “Right from the minute he walked in the door at Eichen House, it was like I couldn’t see anything else.”

 “Yeah, I kind of got that by the way he couldn’t take his eyes off you at the apartment,” she says, smirking. “My point is, I believed him…what he said about you giving him purpose. I think he meant it. I don’t think he’d hurt any of us if it meant hurting you.”

 Stiles smiles fondly. They wander past the main building to the side, where the bleachers are set out.

 “Yeah, I kind of got that impression, too,” he says while they walk. “He’s not…good, you know? He’s a killer. That’s still who he is. Scott’s never going to like him, not after all the things he’s done, or tried to do. My dad probably won’t, either, at least not at first. But I think he was right, on the larger scale.”

 The bleachers are still covered by a film of morning dew, but they sit anyway.

 “What I am now…I need him. The things that are coming after us? People are going to die.” He meets her eyes. “And I have to give them peace, but I don’t want to be the one to kill them.”

 “He’s the blade,” Lydia says solemnly.

 “Huh?” Stiles looks at her.

 “The blade,” she repeats. “It was in one of the books I took from that drawer. It’s one of the reasons I kind of get it, this thing with you and him.” She takes a sip while he waits. “It said that death is a fourfold knot. The phoenix, the banshee, the reaper, and the blade. The Hollow Men. Or women, as the case may be.”

 “Parrish?” Stiles asks.

 “I spoke to him this week, once I’d gone through the books,” she says. “It made sense. The way I’m drawn to him, you know? The phoenix and the banshee. We’re what comes before and after death. I cry for the deaths, he burns the ashes of the ones whose souls have been released. Or at least he tried to, but of course, you weren’t there to release them yet. We’re your bookends. But you and Peter? You’re even more connected. You complete the cycle, like a closed ring.”

 Stiles lets his head fall back and closes his eyes against the brightening sky. He was right, about them. They’re all connected.

 “So I assume you told Parrish about me, too?” he asks, looking back at her.

 “He isn’t going to say anything,” she assures him. “Not until we’re ready. But I was thinking maybe he should be there, too, when we explain this to your dad.”

 “Couldn’t hurt,” he says. “Having more support. Peter can’t be there, obviously, not yet.”

 “I think that should be our next step.” Lydia says. “Telling your dad, I mean. It’s going to be hard enough working around the rest of the pack without trying to keep him out, too. He needs to know Peter’s not a threat to us, and he needs to know what you are. We’re going to need his help.”

 “Yeah,” Stiles sighs. “And the sooner I tell him, the less I have to lie about it.” He taps out a rhythm on the bench.

 “This week, I think,” Lydia says. “I’ll tell Parrish.”

 “Yeah, ok,” Stiles says. “Now about the whole Peter thing?”

“I’m assuming he can create the paper trail himself,” she says, echoing his thoughts from this morning. “It will have to look like he got out of town fast. That should keep Scott and the rest of them from digging into it too deeply. They’ll take it at face value, especially since everyone is distracted by the Dread Doctors.”

 “If I know Peter, he’s already done it. We can push the others in that direction when we talk to them today,” Stiles says. “Don’t you think it’s weird,” he jumps tracks. “The way the Dread Doctors haven’t done anything since I changed.”

 “It does seem like more than coincidence,” Lydia agrees, speaking slowly. “But the question is, why?”

 Stiles can’t think of an answer. They just don’t know enough. They sit for a few moments in silence, finishing their drinks. Stiles’ phone sounds with a text from Scott. Lydia raises a brow in inquiry.

“He says he’s on his way, and to meet him at the front to talk about what to do,” he reads. Lydia’s phone pings with a similar message a moment later. They stand up, tossing their empty cups into the trash can on the way back to their cars.

“Here,” Lydia says, handing Stiles the spray can of makeup from the front seat. “I have a feeling you’re going to need this more than I am.”

“Thanks,” he says, throwing it into his bag.

 They wait for Scott to pull up. Stiles’ phone pings again, from his dad this time.

  **Looks like Peter left town, possibly with another person. Paper trail. Stay vigilant, just in case.**

“Well, that’s one less thing to worry about,” Stiles shows Lydia the text and then shoots him back a confirmation.

 Scott looks relieved to have one less thing to deal with once Stiles shows him the message and both Lydia and Stiles seem to think it’s legit.

 “As long as he’s someone else’s problem,” Scott says. “Hunters will track him if he screws up again. We’ve got enough to do already.”

Scott doesn’t seem to sense anything is off with Stiles, which is simultaneously a relief and a little hurtful. He’s got a lot on his plate, Stiles knows, but all of them do. He lets it go, figuring at least this time, it’s working in his favor.

 Stiles gets a text mid-Calculus from an unknown number. He slides his phone under his desk to read it.

  **Have officially left town. Unofficially, when can you come by?**

 Stiles lip quirks in a smile he covers with his hand, trying not to draw attention to himself. Teachers at this school practically have radars for people using their phones in class. He’s beginning to suspect the supernatural is involved with that, too.

  **After three? Need to check alibi w/ Lydia.**

  **Looking forward to you.** He gets back, and, feeling flushed, shoves the phone back in his pocket.

Lydia agrees to be his alibi. She’s meeting up with Parrish to talk about what their next steps are, so she won’t be alone, either. The day drags on after that. Everyone sits together at lunch throwing Dread Doctor theories around, but since there’s nothing really new to work with they don’t get anywhere.

By the time Stiles pulls up to Peter’s apartment, he’s practically crawling out of his skin. Or maybe just ready to crawl into Peter’s. He thinks Peter would like that. He’s a creepy motherfucker. The door opens before he gets a chance to punch in the code. Stiles would make a joke about puppies waiting by the door for their owners but he’s a little preoccupied with Peter’s mouth, which is on his the minute he’s pulled inside.

The door slams shut behind him. Peter pulls him towards the couch and sits, bringing Stiles with him without breaking the kiss. Stiles pushes down on his broad chest, enjoys the feel of Peter’s rapid heartbeat under his hands. Peter goes without a struggle, though he could easily take control if he wanted it.

“Hi,” Stiles lifts his head up just a fraction to meet Peter’s eyes.

“Hello, Stiles,” Peter says. His voice is warm. Affectionate, almost. His hands stroke down Stiles back and then firmly over his ass as he drags them forcibly closer. Stiles feels Peter’s claws come out, the points of them pinching his ass just enough to turn him on.

“Miss me?” Stiles asks playfully, smile pressing up against Peter’s newly shaved chin. He nips at it. Peter looks younger this way.

“Like I missed the moon,” Peter replies, looking a little too serious. He catches Stiles’ mouth again before he can say anything else.

Peter kisses him like there’s nothing else in the world he’d rather be doing. He’s all focus and intensity. Stiles’ lips are flushed and swollen by the time he finally pulls back. He crosses his arms over Peter’s chest and rests his chin on them.

“We should talk,” he says softly. “Lydia told me what we are.”

Peter’s thumb skims up and down his side, making him squirm. 

“The four corners,” Peter says.

“She called it a knot, but yeah. She says she gets it,” Stiles says. “You and me, I mean.”

“She would,” Peter replies. “She and the phoenix – Parrish, was it? They’ll feel the same.”

“I’m going to tell my dad,” Stiles spills out. “Not about us, not right away, but the rest of it. He’s got to know what I am. What the four of us are. He needs to know about me, and he needs to know you’re necessary.”

“Probably wise,” Peter says. “He won’t like it. The bit about me, I mean.”

“He doesn’t exactly like any of the werewolf stuff, Peter,” Stiles shrugs. “But he dealt with me being a thousand year old fox demon, this is really not the worst thing we could throw at him.”

“Fair enough,” Peter concedes. “We can leave the debauching for another conversation.”

“There’s been no debauching, Peter, I’m not exactly a virgin. I…” Stiles’ face contorts in horror. “Oh, my god, I’ve slept with your daughter.”

Peter seems unphased.

“What can I say,” Peter says. “We Hales have good taste.”

“Ugh,” Stiles’ head drops onto Peter’s shoulder. “That is like a whole world of no.”

“And yet, we carry on,” Peter says solemnly. “So long as my daughter stays far away from your bed from now on.”

“Yeah, I really don’t think that’s going to be an issue,” Stiles says. “She’s been spending time with creepy Theo lately. Honestly, I’m not sure she understands the concept of monogamy anyway. I doubt this will phase her.”

“The benefits of growing up a coyote, I suppose,” Peter says with distaste. “Who is this Theo? I thought I was the only one you called creepy.”

“He’s this dude who went to elementary school with us, supposedly,” Stiles starts, irritated at even the thought of Theo. “Only I don’t really believe it’s actually him. He’s been trying too hard to ingratiate himself into the pack. He just feels…off.”

Peter hmphs.

“And this person, this person you don’t trust, is spending time with Malia?” his eyes flash blue. “I could kill him.” He offers.  “He could be our first.”

Stiles would laugh but he’s almost certain Peter is being serious.

“Yeah, well,” he says after a moment,  “we should probably hold off on that until we have some actual proof he’s as evil as I think he is.”

“Your instincts are usually on point,” Peter acknowledges. “At least when it comes to creepy.”

 “Tell that to Scott,” Stiles says.

 “I would, if I thought it would hold any weight,” Peter smirks. “Somehow, though, I think it would have the opposite effect.”

 “Well, you’re not wrong,” Stiles agrees. “Anyway, Lydia agreed to catch you up on what’s been going on. Creepy Theo notwithstanding.”

 “Oh?” Peter flips them over, draping himself over Stiles. “Why not you?”

 “Well, I’d thought we had better things to do,” Stiles lets his voice drop suggestively. “But if you’d rather…”

 Peter takes the hint.

 They don’t move from the couch for quite some time after that.

 

* * *

 

 

The next week goes by uneventfully. Stiles goes to Peter when he can. He brings the book home with him; if he’s going to tell his dad, he needs as much information as possible. Between him and Lydia, they should be able to cover all the necessary information. The Dread Doctors haven’t made another move yet. The waiting is starting to wear on everyone. Even Scott snaps at them once or twice. They move in groups. Peter checks in with Stiles regularly, both to assure him that he is ok and just, Stiles suspects, for the excuse to speak with him.

He and Lydia end up explaining the Dread Doctors to Peter together that Thursday. Peter is skeptical.

“And they look like what, now?” He asks, hand hot and low on Stiles’ back.

“Like steampunk cybermen from Doctor Who,” Stiles explains.  “But with ugly leather smock vest things.” He gestures at his own chest.

“And Scott says when they spoke, they sounded like broken radios,” Lydia fills in.

“Sounds terrifying,” Peter says, not sounding terrified at all.

“They’ve killed a bunch of teenagers,” Lydia says. “And we don’t know what they’re trying to make. But what we do know is the chimeras, before they die, are stronger than they should be.”

“They can break through mountain ash,” Stiles gives Peter a meaningful look. “Which, by the way, was pretty much my only useful defense against supernatural creatures that wasn’t a baseball bat.”

Peter doesn’t look quite as unmoved now.

“Stay away from them,” he says seriously. “You even think one is nearby and you call, do you understand?”

“The Pack doesn’t know you’re still here, Peter, it’s not like you can just show up,” Stiles says.

Peter turns to look him straight in the eye.

“You _call_ , Stiles,” Peter demands. “They’ll find out about me eventually anyway, and your safety is more important than keeping this a secret. I won’t risk it.”

“I…” Stiles tries to respond, affected both by the authority in Peter’s voice and the emotion that so clearly drives it. Peter looks to Lydia for support. She studies his face for a moment, and sighs.

“He’s right, Stiles,” she says. “None of this will matter if you get hurt, or worse. If Peter wants to protect you, let him. It’s practically what he’s for.”

And Peter, whose ego has always been the size of a small country, doesn’t correct her. That’s enough to convince him.

“Ok,” Stiles says.

“Promise,” Peter doesn’t give an inch.

“I promise!” Stiles says, acting exasperated to hide just how much he wants to dive into Peter’s arms and stay there. “I will call you if I am in danger.”

Peter nods, satisfied.

“We’re going to tell my dad this weekend,” Stiles changes the subject, shaking off the impulse to shift closer to Peter.

“How much?” Peter asks.

“About me, Lydia, and Parrish. About you, and what we are. What we’re supposed to do together. Lydia will explain the stuff about the Nemeton and the reason we’re all here. He might take it better coming from her. We’ll tell him you’re still in the area but we won’t say where, just in case,” he replies. “If it goes badly, though, Peter, you might need to run, at least for a little while.”

“Absolutely not,” Peter responds. “That’s not open for discussion. I stay where you are.”

“Peter,” Stiles protests, but Peter will have none of it.

“Stiles, as long as you are in danger, I’m staying here,” he says. “You’ll just have to do a good enough job of convincing him your safety is a priority for me now.”

“You haven’t exactly made that an easy sell,” Lydia says sardonically.

“Then you will have to do better, won’t you?” Peter replies. “I’m sure you’re both up to the challenge.”

Stiles exhales slowly, trying to keep his growing anxiety under control. So much could go wrong with that conversation. For that reason, more than any other, they really need to get it over with. He can’t deal with having yet another thing hovering over his head.

“In the meantime,” Peter switches topics, “we should work on your gifts.”

 “I don’t know how I’m supposed to do that without killing anyone,” Stiles says.

 “Well, we could – ” Peter starts, leaning forward in anticipation.

 “No, absolutely not,” Stiles shuts him down immediately. “We don’t kill when we don’t have to, Peter. And other than the shadow jumping and scythe wielding, I can’t really do anything else without someone dying.”

 “That being said,” Lydia jumps in. “I believe I was promised a trip to the valley myself, now that you know you can take other people with you.”

 “Not just anyone,” Stiles reminds her. “Just the people death favors. But ok, yeah, let’s do it.”

 Lydia takes to the valley of shadows just as Peter did, fascinated by the swirls of black brushing up against them. They go one by one, and then all three together. Stiles, for maybe the first time since the Nemeton had called him out, feels entirely content.

 

* * *

 

 

The conversation with the Sheriff that Sunday does not go smoothly at first.

 “ _Peter Hale_ , Stiles?” he practically shouts. “You’ve known where he was the entire time? And you lied about it?”

 “Hey, I didn’t lie!” Stiles insists.

 “Oh?” his dad says, face unimpressed. “And what do you call it, then?”

 “Prevaricating?” Stiles tries.

 The Sheriff does not look convinced.

 Parrish, not entirely used to the Stilinski family supernatural team meetings, shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

 “And you,” he says to Parrish. “A phoenix? Really?”

 “We knew I was something, sir,” Parrish says, shrugging awkwardly. “It makes sense.”

 “So what you’re saying is all the bodies that have been going missing have been you,” the Sheriff says.

 “In my defense, sir,” Parrish sits up straighter, “I didn’t exactly know what I was doing at the time.”

 “Dad,” Stiles interrupts, deflecting from Parrish’s post-mortem activities. “Don’t you want to talk about my, uh…”

 “I am getting there, Stiles,” he says. “Do you really expect me to believe all this? Shadow jumping and grim reapers?” He rubs his hands over his face in frustration.

 “I can prove it,” Stiles shuffles in his chair.

 “You can’t take him to the valley, Stiles,” Lydia says sharply.

 “I know that,” Stiles snaps back. “Sorry.  Sorry, I just – look, dad, I know it’s a lot, after…well, everything. But is it really that weird? Look at what we deal with already. We aren’t just taking Peter’s word for anything. It just…it feels right. It feels like the truth, to all of us.” He gestures around the table. Lydia and Parrish nod their support.

 “And you just forgive him for trying to murder your best friend?” his dad says doubtfully. “The guy’s a serial killer, Stiles.”

 “Well, yeah, he is. That’s kind of the point. And no,” Stiles sighs. “No, I don’t just forgive him. I hate that I understand why he tried in the first place. But I can also tell it was the truth. Thankfully, it didn’t work, and so now here we are. And we need Peter, _because_ he’s a killer.” His dad does not look thrilled.

 “He’s a killer so I don’t have to be, dad,” Stiles says plainly. His dad sighs, resigned.

“What’s this about proof, then,” his dad says, waving an arm in his direction.

“Ok,” Stiles says, standing and walking to the corner of the room. “Just, uh, don’t freak out, ok?”

“We’re a little beyond that, Stiles,” he says, wryly.

Stiles takes a deep breath, lets it out again. Then he closes his eyes and calls the scythe. He feels it form in his hands.

“Jesus, kid,” his dad voices sounds strained. “You don’t do anything the easy way, do you?”

Stiles quirks his lips and shrugs.

“Well…no,” he says, watching his dad’s face for any sign he’s going to reach for his gun. “I really don’t.”

“My son is the goddamned grim reaper,” the sheriff mumbles to himself, shaking his head in disbelief. They sit in silence while the sheriff absorbs what they’ve said.

“I’m not happy about the Peter Hale thing,” he says, minutes later. “But I’ll trust you on that. _For now._ But you tell me, if there’s going to be dying happening. By anyone. And if you’re with him, I want to know. And you check in.”

Stiles agrees, and sends the scythe back. The Sheriff shakes his head and sighs again, eyes taking in the empty space where the scythe was as if it might reappear at any moment. Then he opens his arms.

“C’mere, kid,” he sounds tired. Stiles doesn’t hesitate to jump into the hug his dad is offering. It feels just as good as always. He’d told him the truth, and his dad is still here, sturdy arms ready to hold him up.

“Thanks, dad,” his voice is muffled by his dad’s shoulder.

“None of _us_ got into trouble like this when we were teenagers,” he says, but there’s humor underneath the chastising tone and Stiles knows it’s going to be ok.

The peace doesn’t last long. The next day, the Dread Doctors make their move.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles is running late to school. After the revelations with his dad, Lydia and Parrish had left together. They didn’t talk about the supernatural stuff for the rest of the night, choosing instead to order pizza and watch reruns of crime procedurals. They guess right on almost all the suspects. He’d stayed later than usual to eat breakfast with his dad, and now he’s about to miss at least the first five minutes of calculus.

He pulls into an empty spot near the back of the parking lot and throws his bag over one shoulder, jumping out onto the pavement. If he runs, he might only miss a few minutes and avoid a detention. He sees them out of the corner of his eye.

It’s morning, but the California sun is already bright overhead. He freezes, turns to run the other way, but he’s surrounded. They’re making clicking noises, like evil dolphins, he thinks stupidly. He’s in a spot covered only by sunlight, he can’t shadow jump. They’re going to take him. He grabs his phone from his pocket and pushes the send button. The phone rings once, twice as they step closer. There’s nowhere for him to go.

“Shouldn’t you be in class, Stiles?” Peter’s voice sounds through the speaker, teasing.

“They’re here,” Stiles’ voice cracks. “Peter, they’re here for _me_.”

He can hear Peter jump up rapidly, something crashing in the background.

“Where?” he says, deadly serious. “Where are you? Stiles!”

“The parking lot,” Stiles turns, but he’s totally caged in. “At school, Peter. The parking lot.”

“Can you run? Stiles, can you run?” he says desperately.

He feels a pinch on his neck. He reaches up. It’s a needle. He’s getting dizzy.

“Needle,” he says, slurred. “Ouch.”

 The phone falls from his fingers. He hears Peter yelling through the phone, but he can’t tell what he’s saying. He can’t…

Everything goes black.  

 

 

Stiles wakes in a dark room. There are shadows everywhere but he can’t move, can’t feel them. His mouth is dry and cottony.

“Where – ” he tries, but his voice breaks. He tries to move his arms or his legs but they’re strapped down.

“He is awake,” a voice crackles from his side. Scott was right, he thinks, they do sound like a broken radio. Like they’re talking through a voice box or something. God, he can’t _think,_ why can’t he think?

“It is of no concern,” says Doctor Number Two. “We will have what we need soon.”

“What,” Stiles attempts to speak. His voice cracks again but the word comes out.

Doctor Number Three tilts his metal head, curiously.

“What do you want with me?” Stiles tries again. He tries to concentrate but everything is blurry and wrong. Where is Peter? Peter promised he’d come.

“We want what you can do,” Doctor Number One crackles. “Control over death.”

“Immortality,” they say in chorus.

“But I can’t do that,” Stiles says, confused. He coughs. One of the doctors, the first, he thinks, comes closer. There are tubes, and needles.

“No,” Stiles struggles to move away. “No!” The straps hold tight and fast. He tries to jump but he can’t picture the valley. Every time he tries, he just gets dizzy. If he throws up, he’ll choke on it. He’ll –

“Please,” Stiles begs. “I don’t, I can’t – ” but they don’t listen. He feels the pinch of needles, followed by the lightheaded sensation of blood loss. He squints his eyes at them, trying to focus. There’s something off about the way they look, if he could just _see_ it. It’s _right there_ in front of him if he could just focus.

Maybe _that’s_ the problem. He’s trying too hard to focus, but what he’s looking for isn’t there, on this plane. He has to see beyond the physical. He has to stop looking at what’s there for everyone to see and look deeper. He lets his eyes glaze over.

The world grows darker but somehow he can see clearly now. No wonder the Doctors feel so wrong. They are corpses. Their bodies move like puppet strings, but there is no one in them. No souls at all. Instead, they are surrounded by the putrid stench of rot. Hanging above them, something else is pulling the strings. Something dark and evil, with no shape or substance.

“You have no souls,” he whispers.

“We do not,” they say together, again.

“We were a soul, once,” says One. “But then we died.”

“And did not die,” says Two.

“And did not die,” repeats the third.

“And did not leave,” says One.

“So we will live again,” they say in unison.

Stiles feels it all coming together.

“You’re building yourself a body,” he says. “You need a living body.”

“We have tried with these,” says Two. “But we rot away. We cannot continue. We must live again.”

“You will help us,” says Three. “You are what we have been waiting for.”

“But you failed,” Stiles croaks. “You don’t have a body.”

“You’re wrong,” comes a voice from the corner of the room. Stiles snaps his head towards the sound. Theo steps out. “They have me.”

“Theo,” Stiles hisses. “I fucking knew it!”

Theo smiles at Stiles.

“They were all so easy, Stiles. Save Liam and Hayden. Smile. _I just want a pack_ ,” he mimics with disgust. “They all believed it. Ate it up. Scott and his team of do-gooders.”  He steps closer. “All but you.”

“Go to hell,” Stiles spits at him.

“But Stiles,” he practically sings. “I don’t have to go _anywhere_. I never have to die. Not like my pathetic sister. I can live forever.”

“Can you see it?” Stiles growls. “Can you see it hanging over them? You think it will just let you live, Theo? It’s going to push you out. There will be _nothing of you left._ ”

“Oh, please, Stiles,” Theo rolls his eyes at him. “You aren’t going to trick me. I know what they want. All those experiments, they were weak. I was the only success. I was the strongest. Do you hear me, Stiles?” his hand shoots out and latches onto Stiles’ hair, forcing him to meet his eyes. “ _I was the strongest_.”

“You’re insane,” Stiles says, eyes wide. If he pukes, at least he’ll puke on Theo. “You can’t possibly believe this is going to end well for you.”

“Oh?” Theo smirks. “And who’s going to stop me, exactly?”

“That would be me,” Peter’s voice comes from the doorway, already thick with the change. Stiles snaps his neck to follow the sound. Peter’s there, claws out, looking like he knows the deadliest weapon in the world is him. Behind him is Stiles’ dad, gun out and pointed at Theo, Lydia, armed with Allison’s crossbow and a knife strapped to her side, and Parrish, who is _honest to god on_ _fire_.

“Peter,” Stiles croaks. “You came.”

“I promised, didn’t I?” Peter says. “Lydia, get him. Parrish, Sheriff, if you would be so kind…” he gestures towards the doctors.

And then Peter roars, the sound so loud it shakes the glass and vibrates through the metal instruments lying around them.  Everything explodes into motion. Damnit, Stiles needs to _move._ Peter and Theo crash in the center of the room. The sheriff starts shooting at the Doctors, going for the knees, trying to take out their support even if it won’t kill them. It might even be working. Parrish jumps into the fray. Stiles thinks one of the Doctors even catches fire.

Lydia reaches him, knife out. She doesn’t bother trying to unbuckle the straps, just goes straight for cutting right through them. She gets his right hand free and moves to cut the leg straps. Stiles sits up, tries not to vomit, and unbuckles his other hand with clumsy, shaking fingers.

“Stiles, come on,” Lydia moves to support him. He throws one arm over her shoulders and half-steps, half-falls off of the table.

“They gave me something, Lyds,” he says, other hand clutching at his head. “Drugs.”

“We figured,” she tries to steer them towards the wall, away from the commotion. “When you didn’t come back. Peter said he thought you said something about a needle before he lost you.”

Stiles looks up. It isn’t going well. Two of the doctors are on fire, but it doesn’t seem to be slowing them down. The third doctor is hobbling, both knees shot out. His dad must be almost out of bullets. Lydia senses it, too.

“We called the rest of the pack, Stiles. They’re coming, but they don’t know where we are yet,” She looks at him, then yells “Sheriff, back up and cover your ears.” The sheriff doesn’t hesitate. As soon as he’s covered, Lydia screams.

 Stiles had been right when he’d thought her screams would sound different to him. It wasn’t a screech at all. It was a harmony. It was a call to arms. He doesn’t know how to explain it, doesn’t have the words, but it is clear and ringing through the air, and suddenly Stiles can stand again, can think again. He feels the scythe appear in his hand and lets instinct take over.

 He approaches one of the Doctors Parrish has set on fire. He focuses on the strings reaching up into the corrupted soul above, and he cuts. The body drops. The helmet falls off, revealing a rotted human corpse. The thing above him makes a sound like a wail. The corpse starts burning away, unmoving. Parrish, seeing what Stiles has done, takes the opportunity to push the second doctor towards Stiles. He swings. The second Doctor falls. Lydia screams.

 Peter and Theo are still crashing against each other in the middle of the room. Peter has cuts on his arms and across his stomach. Theo’s head is bleeding heavily from the back, but neither shows any sign of letting up. Stiles moves to focus on the last Doctor, who Parrish has already set aflame, so he misses the look Theo throws him, back already turned. Stiles moves to cut the final strings, to end the third doctor. He swings. The creature screams. The door swings open. It’s Scott and the rest of the pack. It’s too late.

 Theo dives towards him. Peter moves fast, but not fast enough to stop Theo. Instead, he flattens Stiles, covering him with his own body.

 “Peter!” Stiles yelps, breath knocked out of him. He turns as some of the weight is lifted off him. Scott and Liam have grabbed Theo off of Peter, as Kira slices her blade through his stomach, glowing gold and shattering half the lights in the room. He chokes and falls. He’s dead.

 Stiles doesn’t process any of this. All he can see is Peter, whose throat is sliced through. Peter, who is choking on his own blood. Again. The blackness above him shrieks and shrieks, but Stiles can’t hear it. He can hear nothing but Peter’s pathetic, futile attempts to breath.

 “No,” Stiles whispers, grabbing him by the shoulders, trying to lift him up. Stop the blood. Something. Anything. “No. No, Peter, no, come on,” he begs. “Don’t do this.” Peter’s eyes are locked on Stiles and he tries to speak, but he can’t. He hand reaches up, brushes Stiles face gently. It’s a goodbye.

 “No!” Stiles screams. Peter is fading away. “You aren’t dying on me, no.” He has to fix this, he’s got to _do_ something, but _what_. Think. _Think._ Peter has stopped breathing.

 It’s about balance. Everything is a balance. Peter can’t die, can’t be dead. But someone has to die for him to live. A price must be paid in blood. He looks up. Some _thing_ has to. A corrupted soul. A life for a life. Stiles lays Peter’s body down gently. He lifts up his scythe. He cries out, all pain and desperation and _Peter_ , and drags the creature with him into the shadows.

 

 

They fight through the blackness. Stiles swings his scythe, sharp and true. The creature is fast, but he’s faster here. This is his place. The shadows come at his command. They are his to control. They swirl and tear at the creature, this thing that once was a man. He cuts into it, and piece by rotted piece, it is destroyed. But there’s something else he has to do here, outside of time and space. Peter. He needs to bring Peter back. A life for a life.

 “Peter!” he screams. “Peter!”

 He feels him.

 “Stiles,” whisper the shadows.

 “Peter,” his voice breaks. He cuts at the creature. “Peter, you have to come back with me.”

 “Stiles,” say the shadows as they surround him. He can sense Peter, confused, beneath the murky black. “Stiles?”

 “Peter, come on,” Stiles begs. “A life for a life.”

 “A life for a life,” say the shadows in Peter’s voice, stronger with each piece the creature loses.

 Stiles raises his blade one last time and drops it down in a killing blow. The creature dissolves. The shadows take the shape of a man as they wrap around him.

 “Peter,” Stiles whispers. “Let’s go home.”

 “Yes,” says Peter. “Bring me home.”

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles reappears in the lab, surrounded by the shadows still dancing around him. He can hear shouting. Scott shouting. His dad. Lydia. He ignores it all. He kneels next to Peter’s body, reaches for the shadows, and, sure and steady, pushes him back inside.

Peter gasps, reaching for Stiles. He struggles to breath, but Stiles can see his throat already beginning to heal. There is more shouting. Lydia and Parrish force the others back, away from them. Stiles waits. They are all alive. Peter is alive. He can wait.

“Stiles,” Peter says, finally, struggling to sit up. Stiles leans over him, helps him sit up, hands gentle. He touches him on the arm, the chest. He can’t stop his eyes from flickering over every part of Peter he can see, checking over and over the now-whole skin of his neck. Peter lifts a hand to Stiles face. Stiles lifts his hand up to hold it there, kisses his palm reverently.  Peter stares at him with wonder. With love. They are both covered in blood, Peter’s blood. They are dirty and tired, but they are alive. Peter is alive. Stiles drowns out the sounds of shouting in the background. They will have to explain everything soon. Scott will be hurt, and confused. There’s so much they still don’t know.

It can wait.

Stiles presses his lips to Peter’s. They can figure out the rest tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this story, I appreciate kudos and reviews!
> 
> If you want to talk about Steter, this story, or anything else, you can find me at http://inanhourofdreaming.tumblr.com. I don't usually post fandom stuff, but I follow lots of fandom blogs:)


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